


I Bet on Losing Dogs

by rmayuscula



Series: Last Words of a Shooting Star [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble, M/M, Mentions of the Regent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29645856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rmayuscula/pseuds/rmayuscula
Summary: “Why not?” He pulls away, unsettled, blond bangs hanging over his eyes again. Aimeric almost never says no, no matter how stupid and dangerous Laurent’s ideas are. He could feel the bruise from a few days ago, when his friend decided that they should dive in the almost-winter-cold pond behind the school. It was shallower than it looked.
Relationships: Aimeric/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Series: Last Words of a Shooting Star [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2180028
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	I Bet on Losing Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> So, I realized that in canon, neither Laurent nor Aimeric went through the terrible teenage queer experience of developing a totally platonic (is it? is it not? what?), very complex dynamic with your best friend. My own, former totally-platonic-very-complex-dynamic-best friend visited (haunted, more like) me in a dream last night, for some goddamned reason, so now, there's this.
> 
> They are supposed to be 15-16? 14-15? in this, although I'm not sure, to be honest. They are just guys being dudes, boys being boys, I guess.
> 
> Yes, it's a Mitski lyric in the title. Yes, I'm doing alright, thank you. And no, it's not beta-read and yes, I'm too pretty for the english language.

“I want to throw up.”

Aimeric could see that Laurent’s hair was getting longer again. The other boy kept trying to brush it away from his face. It was no use, not with the November winds.

“Well, I think he’s cute enough.” That made Laurent grimace, and he saw him catch himself, pull his face into a soft frown instead. “What?”

“You have terrible taste.”

“Do I?” Aimeric said it with Laurent’s hand in his, tracing the lines on his right palm. Laurent looked up from the floor, blue eyes searching for Aimeric’s, trying to study his face. He refused to give him the satisfaction. Laurent intertwined their fingers.

“You do.”

“You do too, then.” That was crude. It went unsaid between them what it meant. They liked to think that they had a say in what happened to them, that it had been their choice. Their favorite thing to do: lying to themselves and to one another.

Last autumn, Aimeric had been failing every one of his essays. After seeing his mom’s displeased eyes, doing that half-squinting thing she did, while glancing at his report card, he had forced himself to sign up for an afternoon class, a writing workshop. He had found Laurent there, after school hours.

He was a grade older and his writing was university-level. He had no reason to show up, at least not academically. Aimeric didn’t need to be told why Laurent had perfect attendance, not by this point.

They crashed at first, Laurent’s put-on-arrogance and Aimeric’s recklessness, but a year later and they had this, whatever it was. Kindred spirits.

“Have you seen Stand by Me?”

“Are you going to call me a fag?” It made Laurent let out one of his soft, rare giggles. Aimeric counted it as a win.

“No.”

“Oh, I won’t run away with you either.” He would, if Laurent asked him, he would. Leave this cold, dreary suburb. The artificial hiking woods and the bilingue-lycée, how Aimeric hates it, with its’ belittling saints looking down at him whenever he walks into the school’s chapel. The designer dogs and the judgmental, eternally wine-drunk mamans. They could go to the actual capital, rent a small studio there, wait for his trust fund and Laurent’s inheritance. His uncle would never let him.

“Not that.” Laurent rises their joined hands, draws a line on Aimeric’s palm with his thumb, a smug look on his face. Aimeric wants to kiss him.

“Ew, no.”

“Why not?” He pulls away, unsettled, blond bangs hanging over his eyes again. Aimeric almost never says no, no matter how stupid and dangerous Laurent’s ideas are. He could feel the bruise from a few days ago, when his friend decided that they should dive in the almost-winter-cold pond behind the school. It was shallower than it looked.

“I’ve seen those pictures of your mom, she looked pretty anti-vax, like she bathed you in essential oils instead.”

“I _am_ vaccinated, what the fuck?” That’s made Aimeric peep his head out of their corner, they were skipping class, hiding behind a storage building.

“Hush. Stop yelling.”

“I’m not yelling.” Laurent whispered in Aimeric’s ear instead, making him flush with their closeness. “I have all my flu shots, come on.”

“No, creep. I bet you’re gonna want to keep the blood, put it in a little jar, carry it around, goth-fuck.” Laurent’s been particularly angsty the last few months, worn down by his own ways. Aimeric saw him eye the hair dye at the pharmacy last week and he even caught him listening to some sort of wailing rock, like a heartbroken girl in an American indie film, this monday. He’d blushed bright red, embarrassed, when Aimeric had laughed at him.

“Don’t be a bitch, Aimeric.”

He caved in two days later, Laurent pestering him like a swarming fly. They did it with one of Aimeric’s brothers’ pocket knives, in his room too, he was away at university, across the sea.

It had stung more than they expected. Laurent laughed with tears in his eyes, pressing their palms together, mirroring each other, fingers intertwined. Aimeric kissed him then, and he wasn’t pushed away.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr as @arsaces-undone (or @rmayuscula)


End file.
